Hangups and Hookups
by 1848EllisBell
Summary: AU S3 post-eps in which Josh never existed. M rated rewrites of 'On-Call'. "His voice is low, deeper than she's used to, primitive and raw. Heat rushes through her, flushing her skin. Her fingers dance nervously along the edge of the sheet, caught between slipping under and staying in safer places." *Repost* Reviews not necessary.
1. Chapter 1

**I originally wrote_ On-Call_ as a one-shot, at the beginning of 2013. It's crazy to think it split off into two fics, one which turned into this AU, and became an idea I couldn't shake from my brain. If you're new to this fic, you don't need to read _On-Call_ to read this one. Basically, _Hangups and Hookups_ chapters are AU rewrites of each canon-based chapter of _On-Call_.**

**Thanks to Ky for the title.**

**Not doing this for the reviews, I think you all know this by now. Had a few requests to upload a few old fics, so just slowly doing this. I really do apologise for the alert spam because of it. I'm trying to space the reposts out. **

**The styles in these chapters do shift around a bit. I'm tempted to fix it, but I don't think it's too distracting so I'm leaving it as is for now. Looking back I'm not overly happy with some stylistic choices I made, but we learn from each fic. If it does bother you, know I am aware of it, and either try to ignore it or just back-arrow out.**

**Welcome to a series of AU season 3 post-eps in a world where Josh never existed**

* * *

><p><strong><em>The Final Nail<em> Post-Ep**

* * *

><p>The bar had been quiet when they had arrived, just a handful of people around them. Some alone, silent, hunched over, nursing a beer, others surrounded by friends, co-workers, laughing or commiserating over glass after glass of their poison of choice.<p>

Then there's _them_, stuck in some kind of undefinable relationship, sitting opposite one another, throwing back shots, caught between spilling secrets, and just being a silent presence, a shoulder to lean on.

A few have become many – people, drinks, secrets - and the noise from those around them is increasing. He leans across the table as she slides another shot to him, lime and a salt shaker sitting between them.

Castle eyes the glass, but doesn't touch it. He glances up at her, concerned by the darkness clouding her eyes. "You okay?"

Beckett meets his eyes over the rim of her shot glass and nods. "You?"

Salt. Tequila. Lime. Lick. Swallow. Suck.

Castle bites down on the sour lime; the juice runs down his throat, soothing after the burn of the tequila. "Not really," he replies, his voice heavy, thick, laced with arousal he makes no attempt to hide. But if she could only see the way her tongue had grazed over her own skin, scraping up the salt, how her lips had caressed the shot glass, the ripples down her throat as she had swallowed. Kate Beckett had made love to that shot, with her lips and tongue alone.

She focuses her attention on the empty shot glass, the tip of her index finger tracing the rim, sliding down the curve of the smooth glass to the sticky surface of the table. She nudges the glass across the tabletop with her finger, lining it up with the two that had come before. "Need to talk about it?"

"I wouldn't be a writer were it not for Damien," Castle reminds her, a somber edge to his tone, haunted by the memories of a man he never really knew.

"You'd be a writer," Beckett responds, adamant, nodding her head as her eyes drift once more to the empty glasses. How many shots have they had now? Too many? Not enough? She meets his eyes again. "You might have had a different start to your career, but it's so engrained in you, Castle. It's who you are, who you were always destined to be."

"You believe in destiny now?" When she looks up and opens her mouth to tell him he's wrong he holds up a hand to silence her. "I think on Valentine's Day everyone's allowed to believe in a little magic."

"Isn't that Christmas?"

He shrugs, gives her a small smile, and downs another shot of tequila.

It's _Valentine's Day_, and she's single, drinking the evening away with her partner in a sticky bar. They are not here for her, though. "I'm sorry about Damien, Castle."

"I know." He slams the shot glass down on the table, upside down so the remnants of the alcohol leave a wet ring on the table top. "Right," he says then, glancing around the poorly-lit bar, through the sea of others like themselves drinking away their pain on Valentine's. "Enough."

Kate heaves a sigh. "Sorry, Castle."

He shakes his head, keeps the _It's fine, Kate, _to himself_. _"Ready to get drunk?"

She meets his eyes, sees a glimmer of hope there, a moment where his blue eyes hold their usual spark - but it's fleeting. "Yeah." Because the tequila isn't hitting her yet, and she needs to get lost for a while. And being lost with Castle makes her feel a little less alone in the wilderness of life. "Let's do this."

She waits with a heavy heart, her fingernail tapping out her misery on the shot glass, while he beckons over an exuberant college girl with a tray. He orders for her, without even a glance in her direction, because he knows exactly what she needs. How he knows she's in a whiskey mood is beyond her, but he's clearly in one too. She wants it to burn, all the way down. Burn her, engulf her from the inside out, and help her to feel.

Because it's Valentine's Day, and a messed-up undefinable relationship with the man she loves is all she has.

* * *

><p>The buzz has settled in, and she has to stop. Really has to stop. Her tongue has loosened, and the buzz makes her feel bold, and she can't... She mustn't... She's still healing, still fighting a losing battle with her mom's case - with Johanna's ghost - and she can't keep looking at him like tonight's the night. She can't keep holding his gaze, can't keep leaning towards him when they speak, because soon she will lean too far, and lips will collide. Lips will collide, and the table between them will be too much. She'll lead him to the seedy restrooms; in a small stall skin will become flushed, and hands will roam. Pants will be unzipped, her shirt torn open and her breasts bared, and bodies will meld. The thought of him, inside her, their bodies moving in the confined space, it stokes the fire within her and her need for him razes her concerns to the ground, the wall that has stood so firmly in place now just ashes at her feet.<br>She blinks away the images dancing before her eyes, clears her mind of indecent acts in bathrooms you don't even break the seal for. How long have they been here, in the crowded, loud, bar, with its sticky surfaces, how long? Long enough to forget sobriety. Long enough to _almost _not care that whiskey makes her horny, and she _needs_ him tonight.

She blinks again; he's staring, and she realizes he was speaking to her. "I'm sorry, Castle. What did you say?" She meets his eyes across the small table, the haze now cleared. The arousal masked, hidden behind a hastily rebuilt wall.

He gives her a knowing smile. "That it's late, and I should call you a cab."

He sees it all, burning in her eyes, and he's pulling back. Because he doesn't feel the same? Because he's not ready? No, because she's not. "Lanie's meeting me a little later," she admits. "Girls' night."

Castle suppresses the wave of disappointment, the selfishness he suddenly feels, and forces a smile. "Guess I'll call myself a cab then."

She reaches across the table before talking herself out of it and places her hand over his. "You gonna be okay, Castle?" _Alone?_

His eyes drift down to her hand, and he swallows down the inevitable stumble of words before his mouth can betray him. Her touch is a comfort, her skin so soft and warm on his, and he knows he shouldn't let it affect him, but his heart beats just a little faster, almost erratic, and he forgets to breathe for a moment. "Yeah, don't worry about me," he tells her once he's regained control, his voice deceptive in its steadiness. "Thank you," he adds, his hand still resting beneath hers. "I needed this." The drinks. _Your company_.

She curls her fingers around his palm, and once he flips his hand over she gives it a gentle squeeze. "Martha and Alexis at home?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"Good," she replies, slipping her hand out of his, her fingers trailing along his palm as she pulls back. "Go home to your family, Castle. I'll see you tomorrow." He nods a little sadly, so she adds, "Call me, if you need to." She falters then, feeling a little foolish. "I mean, if you need to talk. I know it's Valentine's but… You're my partner, Castle. I'm here if you need me." _I might need you…_

He slips his coat on and nods as if to say 'Thank you, but I won't.' He bids her goodnight, and leaves her alone with her whiskey and her thoughts.

* * *

><p>It's late now, past midnight, but sleep won't come. Her phone lies in her open palm, the smooth, dark, display staring up at her. Taunting her. Daring her.<p>

She is curled up on her bed, alone, the sheet her only shield. Beneath she is exposed, emotionally naked, physically nude, and she shouldn't even be considering this.  
>But she needs... <em>Something<em>. An anchor. A steadfast rock in a cliff for millions of years, never giving in to erosion. Something solid. Something strong. Something to cling to.

She needs _Castle_.

She knows.

Lanie knows, sent her home early, advised she turn up on his doorstep wanton and emotionally available. She didn't. Instead she retreated to her own apartment, stripped off, and curled up in bed, but he's all she can think about.

With a well-rehearsed touch, she selects Castle's name from her contacts and calls him.

* * *

><p>"A body?" he asks, his voice a little rough. She has woken him.<p>

"No." She hesitates then, because this isn't her. She doesn't do things like this, doesn't phone him after midnight just to hear his voice.

"Are you okay?"

She hears the rustling, him sitting up in his bed. She hears the worry instantly filling his voice. And, god, he has every right to be concerned. Because this just isn't her.

"I'm fine," she replies.

"How was your evening?"

"Lanie sent me home," she tells him.

"Why?"

"Because my heart wasn't in it," she admits.

"I'm sorry." Because he knows that's partly his fault, the weight of the Westlake case hanging over them both tonight.

"No." She sighs then, annoyed with herself. "_I'm _sorry. Go back to sleep. I'm fine."

"I wasn't sleeping," he tells her.

"No?"

"I was writing."

"In bed?"

"Yes, actually. Pen and paper; old school. Had to get some words out, you know how it is."

She really doesn't. When she has felt pain she has turned to the words others have put together, the sentences they formed that then eased her out of her own head and into that of someone else. She has never been the one to create those paragraphs herself, fill those pages, write that book.

"So, what's on your mind, Detective?"

He's putting emotional distance between them - not Beckett, not Kate, _Detective _- while still making her talk. She loves him for that.

She loves him for a lot of things but... She's not supposed to think like that.

She slips down a little further beneath the sheet and rearranges it around her chest, a shield across her heart. "Wanted to make sure you were okay," she tells him. "Today was rough."

"Well, I'm still a little drunk - your fault, by the way - and writing a tequila-fueled trip down memory lane. So, yes, I'm okay."

She blinks, runs a hand through her loose hair. "You're writing a sex scene?"

"That I am."

"You're in bed, writing a sex scene. How salacious, Castle."

"Oooh, say that again," he teases.

"Salacious?" she asks, smirking. "You like that?"

"I like the way it rolled off your tongue there, Beckett."

The sheet slips down a little, the cool air hitting her chest, creating goosebumps on her exposed skin. "Oh the things you wish you could see roll off my tongue." She presses her lips together, aware of her own slip there, keeping any further words from rolling - too easily - off that tongue of hers. Some things are meant to stay in her head.

"Rook is dying to know what Nikki can do with her tongue." Pen hovering over the paper, poised to write. "Do share, Beckett."

"Some things stay out of the books, Castle," she replies. "This is one of them."  
>She hears the rustle of paper, and frowns, a little concerned, a lot intrigued - but mostly suspicious. "What are you doing?"<p>

"Putting the pen and paper down. It won't go in the book."

"No, it won't. Because it's not leaving my mouth."

"Then, please, stop reminding me of your mouth, because you're killing me here, Kate."

She inhales a sharp breath, and the sheet slips down just a little more. _Kate_. He isn't kidding around anymore.

Silence settles around them, just the soft static sounds of their phones, of the line between them.

She swallows, and it sounds too loud. He isn't supposed to say things like that, and it isn't supposed to affect her like this.

But it's Valentine's. And she's lonely.

She clamps down hard on her lower lip, the pain an attempt to snap her out of this and bring her back to her senses.

Her lip tingles, but her brain is still foggy, as she asks, "Why a sex scene, Castle? After today, why that?"

"Why not a scene where a friend from Rook's past turns out to be a killer?"

"Yeah, that's what I meant."

"Why do you think?"

She purses her lips, contemplates his question. "To move on, and to write the furthest thing possible from that?"

"Nope."

"No?" she asks, confused. "Then why?"

"Because it's Valentine's day and I was feeling inspired."

"By?"

"Jose Cuervo, Pepe Lopez, whatever we were throwing back."

She smiles. "I see."

"For reasons I'm yet to write, Rook and Nikki are apart this evening - and he's missing her."

The sheet bunches at her waist, and oh if only he could see her now... "So he's going it alone?" she asks.

"She just phoned him."

"Oh?" Her eyebrows shoot up at that revelation. "Why?"

"She misses him too."

Yes, she does. "Does she now?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Let me guess," she begins. "Phone sex."

He takes the bait. "Want me to read you what I've written so far, Detective?" The leer is back in his voice. "A little bedtime story."

"Is Nikki whispering dirty things to Rook over the line?" She is pushing him now, pushing herself.

"Her voice alone is his undoing." He pauses. It's a mere beat, but it feels unnaturally long to her. "Speaking of which, what are you wearing, Beckett?"

"Nothing."

There's a pause, an inhalation of breath, before, "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing," she repeats. "Not a stitch."

"Of clothing?" He chokes the words out.

"My apartment is warm."

"Katherine Beckett, you are a tease."

"Sound like something Nikki might do?"

"You know what else Nikki might do?"

"Hmmm?" She hums.

"Have phone sex with Rook."

She licks her lips at his words, temptation drawing the words out of her. "She would, would she?"

"She already is."

His voice is low, deeper than she's used to, primitive and raw. Heat rushes through her, flushing her skin, and sending a throbbing need straight to her core. Her fingers dance nervously along the edge of the sheet, caught between slipping under and staying in safer places.

_Screw propriety_.

She slips her hand under what little of the sheet still covers her, and her legs ease apart, the cool cotton sheets sliding against her bare skin.

"But we're not talking about Nikki and Rook now, are we?" he adds after a moment's silence.

She swallows, her throat feeling constricted, her lips dry. Her fingertips hover above the one place she needs him right now. She holds back, doesn't touch, until she knows this is happening. "No, I suppose we're not," she replies, forcing her parched lips to form the words, forcing the sounds out past the lump in her throat.

"If we do this there's no going back," he tells her. "If we do this we don't act like it never happened." His voice is barely above a whisper, but it's tinged with anger, with a memory of a kiss they never speak of.

"Agreed," she tells him, her voice just as low, filled with as much hurt as his.

"I'm afraid," he begins, his voice hoarse, "that this won't be enough. I want to touch you, _Kate_."

Her fingertips descend, slip between her legs, and she sighs at first contact, when she feels the heat, how wet she already is. "You are touching me, Castle."

"_Kate_..."

And she knows then, knows that his hand has curled around his shaft, that beneath the covers he is touching himself too. "Yes, _Castle_," she whispers.

"God," he croaks out. "You're so wet."

Of course she is, she's been in this state since the bar, her need for him throbbing between her legs, her panties already damp when she shucked them off an hour ago. She had tried to stay in control, but control can go to hell, can take up permanent residence there with propriety. An index finger grazes up her clit, dragging moisture up, swirling it around, and she shivers at the feel of him. Shyness overcomes her then; she wants to voice how hard he is, how thick, how heavy and right he feels in her hand, but the words won't come out. What does come out is more intimate than she had anticipated. "I need _you_."

"Not tonight," he says, his voice gentle. "Soon but... Not tonight."

She absorbs his words, her fingertip stilling. He's right. Tonight, he's still processing Damien's crime. Tonight, she's still not ready for _that_. This is a step, more distance bridged between the place they're in now to where they want to be. The _soon_ makes her heart swell, the promise of this happening for real, it unravels her. She comes undone. "Promise?" Her chest heaves as she exhales the word.

"Promise."

She shudders; they're his fingers now that are finding the rhythm, drawing circles, decreasing into tighter and tighter rotations, pressing just a little harder. She chokes back at a sob as the electric heat builds.

"I'm inside you, Kate."

Two long fingers slide in, pull back, then push deep, creating friction. Her legs shift further apart, and she pulls her knees up, the sheet now at her ankles. She's barely speaking, too caught up in her own arousal, but the little sounds she sends his way are enough. She knows they are reaching his ears. With her eyes closed she is straddling his hips, her muscles so perfectly controlled as she clenches around him, sliding up and down his length in time to his own thrusts. With her eyes closed the day melts away and it's just him - the only person who means anything on this day.

It's Valentine's and she's having phone sex with someone who deserves so much more. Her eyes open and she stills her movements - and he senses it.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out.

"Why?"

"You deserve more than this."

And just like that he's in her head, sharing her thoughts. "So do you." But there's already no going back, they've already gone too far. "Are you close? I'm almost... about to..."

"Come for me, Kate," he breathes through the phone.

She lets out a soft sob, a sound caught between relief and desperation, and closes her eyes. His fingers, his lips, work in perfect unison, and then - as she slips in a third finger, he's pressing his hard length inside her once more, easing in and filling her so completely she could cry.

"You feel so good, Kate. I'm close. Let go."

And she does. She holds a breath, eyes squeezed closed, as she reaches the peak of her pleasure before the world around her explodes into blinding hot light. She lets it all go, shattering around her own fingers, her muscles clenching, throbbing, twitching.  
>She hears his own grunts, other sounds she won't focus too deeply on, and it isn't long before he too is breathing raggedly through the line. "You okay?" she whispers, her fingers still deep inside herself, too content to move.<p>

"Yeah," he replies after a moment, the word ending sharply as he pauses to take a breath. "You?"

"I'm better now," she admits.

"Me too."

They're both silent, processing what just happened; the evidence all over their sheets, the necessary clean-up about to happen on both ends on the line making the event undeniable.

"We'll talk tomorrow," she promises.

"Until then, Kate."

She smiles. "Night, Castle."

But they don't talk about it the next day; the whole messed up evening is pushed aside, thrown into the Pandora's box of events they never speak of. It isn't opened again until a freezer and a dirty bomb almost take their lives - and he phones her...


	2. Chapter 2

**_Countdown_ ** **post-ep**

* * *

><p>She can't sleep; unable to shake the cold, unable to shake the thoughts, her brain won't shut down. In the darkness of her bedroom, Kate stares out at the shadows in the room with one person on her mind.<p>

_Castle._

She hopes he has found warmth, found sleep, tonight.

* * *

><p>The day dominates his thoughts; on his couch, winter comforter wrapped around his shoulders, hot chocolate on the coffee table before him, Castle fights a losing battle with insomnia.<br>He closes his eyes, and the walls closing in around him turn to blue ice. The blood in his veins freezes, and he clasps the blanket tighter as the chill descends around him once more, his body shaking from the memories of the day.  
>He opens his eyes to the soft glow of the fireplace, the warm orange shades surrounding him, and the glacier retreats once more.<p>

Awake, he feels alive. Awake, he isn't dreaming of the arctic.

And Kate, is she okay? The day dominates his thoughts; she almost died in his arms.

He doesn't even look at the time as he selects her name from his contacts.

* * *

><p>She has no choice, she will claw her way out of this deep crevice if she must; with her fingernails digging into the smooth glacial walls surrounding her, the cold burning her skin, she ascends - and slides back down, the cold, jagged ice piercing her skin, shredding her clothes, freezing her spirit. She shakes it off, desperate for a foothold, anything to cling to. She raises her eyes, shielding them from the bright sun above, and his face comes into focus. He calls to her, offering his hand, promising to pull her up. She reaches for him; standing on the tips of her toes she stretches her arm up, extends her fingers, desperate to take hold of his hand. Then, in the blink of an eye, she crumbles; she drops down to the soles of her shoes, her arm falling back to her side, her brow furrowed at the sounds emanating from him. Why does Castle sound like her cellphone?<p>

Kate snaps awake, her body jolting up from being broken out of an intense dream by an unexpected sound. She blinks away the hesitation, before professionalism kicks in, and she reaches for the phone on her nightstand.

_Please don't let it be a murder..._

She glances at the display, the light from the screen blinding her. She blinks, clears her vision, and isn't at all surprised by the name on the screen. She accepts the call with a deft swipe of her finger across the display, and brings it to her ear as she slips out of bed. Her throat is dry, she needs water. No, too cold. Warm water? She shudders at the thought. She is already padding across her bedroom floor, on a hot chocolate mission, when she speaks.

"Couldn't sleep?"

* * *

><p>Castle smiles at her words. "Not really," he admits. "Can't shake the cold."<p>

"I know the feeling."

Several seconds of silence fall between them, and then he hears the clicking of metal against ceramic. "Coffee might not be the best idea."

"Hot chocolate," she corrects him, her voice subdued but warm.

He glances at his own cooling mug untouched in front of him. "I tried that," he tells her. "Didn't help."

"Clearly," she replies. "Or you wouldn't be speaking to me right now."

"Are you okay?"

She is silent for a moment, just the clinking as she prepares her drink, but he doesn't interrupt the silence with a new question, instead he waits. He waits for her to be ready to answer him, because he needs to know.

"Today was a doozy."

He smiles at her words, but it drops from his face and his lips form a tight line. "But are you okay?"

"Getting there," she admits.

He wants to wrap his arms around her now, but he'll keep that admission to himself. He held her, briefly, after disarming the bomb, but the adrenaline of the moment had ripped all intimacy from it. It hadn't been until later - much later - when they were recounting the moment he saved the city that he had realized he had actually held her in his arms. He wants to hold her now, wrap her in a warm embrace, pull her body to his. He wants to run his fingertips up and down the gentle curve of her spine, drop a lingering kiss to her forehead, and comfort her.

But she's Kate, the strong, extraordinary Detective Beckett, and she would probably break his nose if he tried.

_Or would she...?_

Too much has happened between them lately, their relationship changed to the point he doesn't know what to call it anymore; when two friends participate in phone sex can they still call one another _just friends_?

* * *

><p>He's quiet, for too long. She slides off the stool at the kitchen counter and carries her hot chocolate to the couch. "You okay, Castle?" she asks as she sits carefully, holding her steaming mug in one hand, and pulling a blanket around her with the other. The phone held in place with her chin and shoulder is a balancing act, but she manages to keep the contents of her drink in the mug.<p>

"Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking."

"Me too," she replies. She curls her legs up under her, and holds the phone with her free hand, her neck and shoulder sore from holding the phone in place. "Are you writing?"

"Thinking about it."

"Nikki and Rook in a freezer?"

He shivers. "Don't say that word."

"Sorry," she replies, her tone serious. "Sending them to a tropical island instead?"

"Tempted to go myself." He sighs, and rubs a hand up his face, through his hair.

"What's stopping you?"

_You. _"Work." He pauses to chuckle gently, because that answer's not much different to the one in his head. "I write best in my office. Neutral space," he explains.

"Ah," she replies.

But it's drawn out, like she heard the real meaning behind his answer.

"_You_ could take time off," he says.

"I prefer to work and solve murders than get lost in moments of idleness where my mind wanders back to that freez- to earlier today."

There's too much sadness clogging up the line between them; too much regret dropping heavily down on him. He's cold; she is too. Together, they could find warmth. "Come over."

* * *

><p>His voice is a low rumble of words, and she's not even sure she heard him correctly. "I'm sorry?" It wasn't quite how she had expected him to respond.<p>

"Come over," he repeats, his voice stronger.

She bites down on her lower lip, a habit that's been happening more and more since he entered her life. "Why?" Because she _needs_ to know.

"I can't write," he admits, a resigned sigh leaving his lips. "The words won't come tonight. I think I'll just wrap more blankets around myself and watch _Star Wars _until I fall asleep. Company would be nice."

_More than nice._ "Okay," she agrees.

* * *

><p>He might just be pushing his luck, and he's aware of this. But that won't stop him from sliding his hand up from where it rests on her knee, up her toned thigh, ever higher. She's wearing pants, and he hates that a little. He should have implemented a dress code. Dress being the operative word. The shorter the better. Light fabrics only. That way when his hand skimmed up her thigh his fingertips would be grazing her skin, and not the rough denim currently taunting him.<br>He's feeling hopeful, as his fingers trace lazy circles across the curve of her thigh, so he'll keep pushing, keep moving forward, and silently hope.

It hadn't started quite so bold, it had started with them on opposite corners of the couch, each wrapped in a separate blanket, silently watching _Star Wars_. But somewhere between _Star Wars_ and _The Empire Strikes Back_ she had shed her blanket and had opted to share his as well. And he hadn't questioned it. He had opened his arms and allowed her to slip in silently beside him; she had taken the edge of the blanket from him, but his arm had remained draped across her shoulders. He had cupped her shoulder, fingertips pressing lightly into her flesh, and had tugged her to him. Holding the edge of the blanket against his thigh, he had soon released his hold on it and curled his palm over her knee.

* * *

><p>Her eyes are now fixed on the screen, focusing on <em>The Empire Strikes Back,<em> but she's not as absorbed as she appears, and she'll freely admit she stopped paying attention to the movie a few minutes ago, when his hand started trailing up her thigh. She's trying to act unperturbed, pretending his fingers skimming up her denim-clad leg isn't the reason she's feeling a sudden warmth within, isn't why her face is probably starting to take on a pinker hue. In her peripheral vision she sees his head turn, aware he's watching her. He's waiting for her to push his hand away, but she won't do that. Not here, not now.

She turns, curls a leg up, her foot on the couch beside her, and allows her body to sink into his. Her head comes to rest at his shoulder, the crown of her head nestled beneath his chin as he turns into her, the movie forgotten.

"We need to talk," he murmurs against her hair, and she freezes.

The moment gone, she releases a long pent-up sigh, allowing it to slip from her lips. She pulls back, out of his arms, away from his warmth. She is already on the verge of standing, seated on the edge of the couch, when his fingers curl around her wrist. She doesn't resist, but is thankful when he doesn't try to tug her back to him. His fingertips trail down her wrist, tickling her skin as they move, lace with her own fingers, and squeeze.

"We need-"

"Don't say it again, Castle." She turns away, her eyes on the screen but taking nothing in. She dips her head, studies the rough pattern of her denim. She had been working through it. Making progress. Almost there... She had been _almost there_.

His hand slips from hers, and he rakes it through his hair. "We haven't- You won't..." He grows more frustrated with each sentence he is unable to finish. "We had phone sex, Kate."

She's sits, stock still, frozen in place, her hands clutching at the edge of the couch cushions. She had been talking about the day they'd had _today_, thought he had too. They had never mentioned the incident over the phone, those words shared across the line, but had brushed it all aside like it had never happened. Talking about _this_ day would be easier than the conversation he's trying to initiate. She turns to him, forces herself to meet his eyes. "Castle..."

* * *

><p>His eyes bore into her as his frustration builds. "Sorry, I forgot," he replies, his tone cool, his stare like ice. "We don't talk about such things." The frustration overwhelms him then, and he can't hold it in any longer. "Except, you agreed," he reminds her, his voice a little higher than usual, less controlled. "No going back, remember? It happened, Kate. Don't act like it didn't."<p>

"Not tonight," she whispers, repeating his own words from that night back to him. "Soon but... Not tonight."

"Why not?" His voice is strained, because he _knows_ why, he knows his timing sucks. But, she's here. He asked her to come over, and she had come to his door. He had lowered his hand to her knee and began a torturous journey up her thigh, and she hadn't push him away. Now, silent, he waits for her to speak.

Resigned, she shakes her head, dropping her gaze as she does so, clearing her head. She raises her eyes to meet his once more. "I know, okay? I remember." She waits for him to nod, before continuing. "But today... God, Castle, today's been-"

"Insane," he agrees, still hurting, still frustrated, still needing her.

She nods. "Can we just..." She worries her lower lip between her teeth, and the internal battle she's waging with herself is painfully clear in her tightly-drawn features. "Tonight, can we just be who we were before? Before _that_ night. Tomorrow, we can talk. But tonight? Tonight I need my partner." She fixes him with an intense gaze, silently pleading. "My best friend." The last three words leave her lips barely above a whisper, the fight gone from her.

He studies her, considers her words, the day they've had. Unable to do anything but agree, he nods. "Of course."

* * *

><p>She remains on the edge of the couch for a moment longer, before she sinks back and eases her body to his, her side connected with his once more, her knees turned to him. His arm slips back behind her shoulders again, instinctively, and he draws her closer. Her decisions now betray her words to him, and she knows this. But she's cold, and her body gravitates to his, seeking out his warmth.<p>

And soon after, as his fingers curl around her knee before drawing patterns on her thigh once more, as she molds her side to his and lays her head against his shoulder, she knows. She knows, before his head turns to her and his warm breath fans out across her cheek, that this is not her best friend she is practically cuddling with on his couch. If his warm lips were to meet hers, she would not resist. If she were to raise her head now, claim his lips, she knows he would not refuse her.

Her stomach flutters as her mind conjures up images of a night yet to be spent with him. Her eyes are fixed on the television screen, but she's only seeing _them, _a tangle of limbs and naked flesh, joined in the most intimate of ways. The fluttering descends, and she presses her knees tight together to suppress it. The tightening of her muscles only causes the rough denim at the crotch of her jeans to rub against where she needs him most, and she sucks in a breath that resembles too much of the gasp she was trying to suppress.

"You okay?" His voice is low, concerned.

She exhales, and manages a smile. Composed, and ignoring the persistent throbbing between her legs, she pulls back just a little. "I will be." Warmth and companionship. This is all tonight can be about. She's tempted to lean in, brush her lips against his cheek, but it will be her undoing. The feel of his skin beneath her lips, breathing his scent into her lungs, with that combination assaulting her senses nothing would be able to stop her from dragging him to his bedroom, shedding their clothes along the way.

He eases her back against him; kissing her temple, his lips linger as if he is committing the feel of her to memory.

_Another one for the box_, she thinks ruefully when he finally pulls back and settles against her. Another day shoved forcefully into deep, dark places, to be pushed aside and forgotten for weeks, months even.

And soon that box will be full.


	3. Chapter 3

**_One Life to Lose_ Post-Ep**

* * *

><p>With images of his mother stuck on an endless horrifying loop in his head, of a scene no son should ever witness, Castle pushes into the comfort of The Old Haunt. The laughter of patrons celebrating over a beer, the dimly-lit interior, the stale yet familiar air, it washes over him, calming his troubles - erasing the images of his mother kissing Lance Hastings. The door closes behind him, and he slips out of his jacket, slinging it over an arm as he steps further into the bar.<p>

Carving a well-worn path through the revelers, Castle makes his way to the table at the back, the one tucked neatly away in a darkened corner, where three seats will be occupied, his own empty and waiting to be filled.

The sea of people part, patrons separating before him in an almost biblical manner, to reveal the lone figure sitting at the table, nursing a beer, her eyes focusing on him, her lips curling up into a smile as she recognizes him.

He heads straight to the table, his head cocked slightly to one side, inquisitive and just a little suspicious.

He stops at the table, places his jacket neatly on the empty stool beside her. "Ryan and Esposito?" He leans in a little, rather than try to raise his voice over the sounds of the bar.

His breath is warm against her skin, his comforting, familiar scent surrounding her, and she fights to keep from turning her head when she replies. "Send their regards," Kate tells him without a hint of regret, "but Jenny and Lanie grew impatient."

"They ditched us?"

He backs off a little, giving her the space to be able to turn and look at him. "Yup." She raises her eyebrows as if to say, 'so now it's just the two of us', before she faces forward again and swallows down a generous mouthful of the amber liquid.

"Sorry I was delayed."

"It's okay," she promises. "I knew you'd come." Her fingers draw patterns through the condensation lingering on the exterior of her now drained glass, the swirling motion drawing his eyes to her problem.

"Refill?" he asks, smiling.

"Only if you're trying to get me drunk."

She's looking up at him under long, thick lashes, flashing that dazzling smile, and he knows he's in trouble tonight.

"I'm trying to get myself drunk. I have images of my mother and Lance Hastings that I need to banish from my brain. Care to join me?"

She frowns a little at his words, at something she doesn't quite understand. "A refill would be appreciated."

He heads to the bar with an extra spring in his step, pleased it will just be the two of them tonight. He slips behind the bar, pouring two pint glasses to the brim, nodding a greeting to his staff as they fill orders. The soothing sounds of the piano fill the room, and he smiles to himself, the atmosphere welcoming and chilled. His bar makes him proud.

"No tequila?" Kate asks as he returns and carefully places the glasses on the table.

He hesitates then, wondering if he ordered wrong. But then she chuckles lightly and shakes her head at him. "Kidding, Castle."

"Later, perhaps," he replies, sliding onto the stool opposite hers.

She tilts her head, her eyes staring off into the distance as she listens. A soft smile lifts her features, and in the busy, loud, humming bar she feels a calm surrounding her. "I love this song."

Kate's voice lifts above the sounds of the piano keys, and he raises his head and listens as the music surrounds them. _Desperado_. Eddie's playing all their favorites tonight. And then he feels it, a touch so light he may have simply imagined it - but he didn't. A brush of Beckett's ankle against the side of his shin. He ignores it - it was accidental, right? - and focuses on his pint. And as he swallows a mouthful of beer she does it again, more deliberate. A quick, but firm, skim of her toes up and down his calf. He chokes, spluttering a little as he expels the beer from his lungs and fills them with oxygen. _What the…?_ His surprised eyes burn into her, studying her with a questioning gaze, but she's smirking around her beer glass, ignoring his eyes, so he asks out loud, "What just happened?"

"Accident," she replies. "My shoes were killing me." She had eased them off while he had gone for the beers, wiggled her toes when he had sat opposite her, and she just hadn't been able to keep them on her own side, hadn't been able to resist the physical contact any longer.

"You weren't playing footsie with me just then?"

"You wish." She rolls her eyes for good measure, but Castle isn't buying it.

"So you're telling me that was an _accident_?"

"Mmmhmm." She sneaks a surreptitious glance Castle's way before lavishing her attention on her glass once more. He's studying her through narrowed eyes, and she knows she's busted.

He remains silent for a moment, before he takes a chance. "Listen," he begins. "It's loud in here, and I see people in need of a table. You okay with relocating downstairs?"

"To your office?" she asks, one eyebrow cocked ever so slightly.

"To my office," he confirms.

She presses her lips together while she contemplates it, before shrugging. "Sure, why not." Her response may be casual, but there's a tempest of _need_ and _want_ and _now_ swirling a whirlwind of arousal around her - and she thought he would never ask.

He stands, folds his jacket back over his left arm, and extends his right hand to her. "Leave the drinks," he tells her, leaning in close to her ear to whisper the words.

With a small smile playing on her lips she slips her hand in his and allows him to help her off her stool. She tugs her hand from his and eases her feet back into her heels. She sees the flash of disappointment, but it's fleeting as his brain registers she's still there, about to follow him downstairs, so her hand absent from his is not the end of the world – or even the end of the night. He ducks behind the bar and collects the necessary items. A bottle in his hand, two shot glasses and a salt shaker balanced on a plate of lime wedges in Kate's, he leads them down the stairs and to his basement office. She follows in silence, content to trust in whatever he has planned.

"Nice," she observes as she reaches the bottom of the stairs and looks around, taking in the room. He has altered the décor a little since she was last here, added a couch, a small coffee table, a desk. "You come down here often?"

"I've done a little writing in here," he admits, draping his jacket over the back of the chair at the small writing desk.

It's quiet too, the sounds from the bar above too muffled to be a distraction. The soft lighting casts a comforting glow across the middle of the room, and it's cozy, warm, familiar. A good space.

Placing the plate on the table, she eases down onto the couch and smiles up at him. "You gonna stand there all night, Castle? Or are you gonna bring that bottle over here already?"

He moves into action with a slight jolt, quick to join her on the couch. He sits beside her, a respectable distance between them, and pours two shot glasses to almost overflowing.

Kate eyes the glasses, and the soft chuckle that leaves her lips is laced with nervousness.

"What's so funny?"

Calming herself with a deep, slow breath, she meets his eyes. "This is becoming a habit," she tells him. "You and I, hitting the tequila."

"I'm happy to do this without the alcohol," he offers.

"And what, exactly, are we doing?" She quirks an eyebrow, daring him on with a look.

It's quiet, they're alone, and she's pushing him - but he _knows_ her. The moment he pushes just a little harder than she likes she'll pull back, chastise him, flee. Her bravado is false, he's sure, so he picks up the shot glass and offers it to her. "We're hanging out after work."

She accepts the shot - and his answer - and licks her hand, just below the V of her thumb and forefinger, allowing him to shake the salt onto her skin. She runs her tongue across her skin once more, scraping up the salt, her eyes locked on his as she does so. She breaks the contact when she throws the shot back, avoids his gaze when she clenches the lime wedge hard between her teeth until the juice runs freely down her throat. The glass back on the table, she leans back into the soft, pliant couch cushion, and sighs, content.

"So what are you going to do with your signed _Temptation Lane_ photo?"

She chuckles at his words. "Oh, I don't know," she replies, her eyes now fixed on the detailed ceiling above. "Frame it. Hang it in my office at home."

"Really?" he asks, pleased with her response.

She shrugs and lowers her eyes back to meet his. "Maybe. I, ah, hadn't really thought about it yet. But, I love it," she tells him. "Thank you."

"Good," he replies. "I'm glad."

She closes her eyes, and relaxes further back into the couch. She shifts, turning her body to his, enough for their knees to bump.

"I suppose that was accidental too."

Her eyes remain closed, but her lips curl up in the smallest of smirks.

He feels his body leaning to hers, fights the need to reach out, tangle his fingers in her hair, and taste those smirking lips - but he can't do it. He isn't brave enough. The inevitable rejection would end him.

She opens her eyes at his own silence, nudges his knee with her own, keeping the touch brief and innocent. She watches him while he pours them both a second shot, aware of where this night is headed, and needing it too badly to even consider stopping it.

Alone with his muse, in the privacy of the Old Haunt's office, Castle is hit by the familiarity of the moment, of the couch, the tequila, Nikki and Rook…

"Whoa," he mutters. At Kate's furrowed brow, he elaborates. "I just had a flashback."

"To?"

"The days I spent writing the lead up to page one hundred and five."

"_Heat Wave_?"

He nods. "A bottle of tequila, a lime, and a salt shaker – these three items were a permanent fixture on my writing desk. The smells, the textures, I was surrounded by them for three days."

"Why so long?"

"It was a… I had to get that scene just right, you know?"

She nods. "You did good, Castle. It's not something the reader soon forgets." She rests her head back against the couch, smiles at him. "You ever act it out too?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "For research, you mean?"

"Mmmm," she affirms.

"Ah, no. Actually, no."

"Why not?"

"You would have turned me down."

Her eyes widen at his words, her lips tugging up into an amused smirk. "I might have surprised you."

"You surprise me daily."

Her heart turns somersaults in her chest at his low, breathy tone. "So why didn't you ask?"

"Fear."

"Of?"

"Being rejected," he tells her. "You wouldn't even let me take you out for a drink after our first case. No way would you have let me lick salt off your skin."

She extends her arm, her hand hovering near his lips. "I would now," she murmurs, her eyes dark, heavy-lidded.

He sits stock-still, just watching her hand in front of his lips, the slight shake in it not unnoticed. His eyes flick up to hers and he sees the frown beginning to form; flicking his eyes back to her hand he watches as she clenches her fingers and begins to withdraw, _because he's an idiot._ Hesitating no longer, he leans in until his lips brush the side of her hand, trailing down the length of her index finger, across the soft padding at the junction of her thumb and forefinger, then down to her wrist. Just his lips, kissing a trail along her skin.

Her lips go dry, her throat suddenly thick; her entire body is buzzing. "You need to lick it, Castle," her voice subdued, her eyes heavy.

He groans low at her words, and it vibrates against her wrist, through the thin, pale skin, to her veins. She feels her skin flush at the added warmth of his breath upon it. The heat flows through her veins, until it feels like her heart is on the verge of igniting in her chest. His lips remain on her skin; a flutter takes up residence low in her stomach, and with each sweep of his lips across her skin the flutter descends. Lower, lower, spanning out within her, until she finds herself pressing her thighs tighter together to ease the low but persistent throbbing that's been building incrementally with each passing minute.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he growls against her skin. He raises his eyes to watch her reaction, sees the acknowledgment there.

"Who says I'm playing?"

His lips leave her skin, he lifts his head and holds her gaze. "Are you?"

Her eyes dip to the hand before his face, and she flexes her thumb to draw his attention to it too. She holds the salt shaker ready in her other hand, and nods. It's an answer to his question, and a motion to continue.

With dark eyes, he cradles her wrist in one hand, drawing it back to his lips. His tongue darts out, licks a slow, circular pattern on the webbing of her thumb. It's agonizingly slow, and he lingers longer than necessary, until her skin is thoroughly damp. _Wet_. _Hot_. _Ready_. He lifts his head, his eyes on hers the entire time, and he watches as she shakes the salt out, the crystals clinging to her skin. And then, his tongue is back, lapping up the salt, scraping across her hand and removing all traces of it from her.

She sits painfully still, forcing herself to suppress the shudder so desperate to move through her. She holds her breath, doesn't blink, while the roughened texture of his warm tongue sweeps up the salt from her hand. She knows it's shaking, even held securely in his own she can feel it.

As steady as possible, she offers him the shot glass, full almost to the top with the pale amber liquid, and it's only then that he drags his mouth from her hand, takes the glass, and throws it back. Pinched between her fingers, she offers him the lime, his lips brushing her fingertips as he sinks his teeth into the slice and drinks down the juice.

She needs to breathe again, and lets out a low whoosh of air, unsteady and broken.

"Your turn," he tells her, his hand now hovering before her lips.

She swallows thickly, parts her suddenly dry lips, and wets his skin. She is quick, unwilling to linger. He smirks at her hesitance as he shakes the salt out, but she ignores it. She dips her head once more and laps at the salt. She takes the shot glass from him, swallows it back, and flinches as it burns her throat. Her senses heightened, her whole body on edge, she refuses to hesitate when she sees him grinning around the lime wedge clenched between his teeth. She propels her body forward, eases her lips around the lime, and bites into the soft flesh of the fruit. He releases his own hold, but not before their lips brush. She swallows down the juice, and places the dry fruit on the table. She smiles at him, proud, as if to say, 'Bring it.' Out loud she asks, "Another round?"

He is silent; it has hit him now, what just happened in the Old Haunt's office. Innocent drinks that became something more. Like innocent phone calls that ended up anything but. He knows how fast he might be about to end this night, but he can't hold it in any longer.

He raises a hand, gently brushes loose curls behind her ear, the tip of his finger following the sensitive shell of her ear as he does so. He keeps the connection, and traces her jaw. His touch falls into her hair, loose and resting just below her shoulders, he concentrates on unraveling the curls between his fingers, and finally says, "We need to talk."

She flops back against the couch with a long sigh, tugging her hair from his touch as she does so. She turns away from the tender expression on his face, and shakes her head. "We really don't."

"I'm a guy, but even I can admit what's happened between us lately is weird and we need to discuss it."

She turns back to him, eyes shining. "You know you could have just got me drunk, Castle. It would have been easier. Then we could have 'slept on it', _together_."

"And never mentioned it again," he replies in a bitter tone.

"Instead you get me tipsy, and then want to talk. What a buzzkill, Castle."

He watches her for a moment, contemplating the situation. _Another time, when she's sober._ He stands thenm, and offers her his hand. "It's late. Let me take you home, Kate."

"I can find my own home way, Castle."

"Just share a cab with me, that's all I'm asking."

"Fine." She stands, ignoring his outstretched hand, and walks ahead of him up the stairs. She pushes through the bar crowd, and out into the street.

He's behind her, struggling into his jacket, a couple of steps distance between them, and he doesn't even flinch when the door almost slams shut in his face. "You're feisty when you're horny," he mutters at her.

She turns and stares him down. "Just hail a cab already."

He wishes he was taking her home – to her bed. She's pissed off, and he imagines a tipsy, angry, frustrated Beckett is a lot of fun beneath the sheets. But he won't even consider it, not when there's alcohol flowing through her veins, not when she's determined to avoid discussing a subject they can't keep brushing under the rug. Not when he has this fear tugging at him, the fear of just one night with her. It needs to be more than that. It means too much to him.

She is silent as they wait, silent throughout the ride, refusing to meet his eyes. Only after she exits the cab does she turn just before closing the door and says, "I'll call you."

"When?" he asks, but the cab's door is already closed and she's disappearing into her apartment's lobby...


	4. Chapter 4

**_Law and Murder_ post-ep**

* * *

><p>Kate sits on the stone steps of the Angelika, alone, tucked against a corner, her coat wrapped tight around her, her cellphone in her hand. She stares at the black display as people hurry past her, up the steps and into the warm lobby of the theater. People. Couples. No one walks past her alone, and that hurts more than she might usually admit, the fact that she doesn't <em>have<em> to be alone. But… He rejected her. Or it feels that way at least. He could have laid her down along the length of the couch in his office in the Old Haunt, he could have undressed her, slipped between her legs, and coaxed release after release out of her. He could have curled up beside her afterwards, he could have…

But he had sent her home, and she'd had to bring herself to climax. Alone.

God, she was so damn tired of being alone.

She selects his name, and brings the phone to her ear. A wave of apprehension washes over her; the fear of rejection is too fresh, her wounds are still red and smarting. With each ring her desolation builds. By now, he is holding the phone in his hand, he has seen her name, and will refuse to answer…

"Beckett?"

She exhales her held breath. "Castle," she replies.

There's a pause, and it's clear he has heard something in her tone. "Is this you calling me?"

She had promised she would phone him, after leaving him alone in the cab and escaping into her apartment building. She hadn't. There had been one brief phone call a couple of days ago:

_"Is this you calling me?"_

_"No. There's been a murder, if you're up for it."_

_"Always."_

She worries her lower lip now, her eyes watching those around her. "Yes?"

He sighs through the line. "Why did that sound like a question?"

She shakes her head at herself. This is ridiculous. "This is me calling you," she confirms. "I'm about to head into a screening of _Forbidden Planet_, company would be nice." She's braver than this. In a stronger voice, she adds, "And, after the movie, there's a quiet café around the corner…"

"Good for talking?"

"Yes," she tells him. "I'm ready." He doesn't speak, but she hears rustling. "Castle?"

"The Angelika did you say?"

Hours ago, back at the precinct, yes. "Mmhmm," she replies.

"I'm on my way."

* * *

><p>Castle meets her at the bottom of the stone steps; Kate dips her head, hiding a shy smile behind tendrils of loose curls, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, struggling with how to start this conversation. There's an awkward air descending upon them, one that only appears now they're away from the precinct. Now that it's just <em>them<em>. There's a hesitance in his gait, an uneasiness in his body language, his eyes unsure as he takes in her smile, and decodes its meaning. For a moment – an endless stretch of time that swirls between them, repelling them like magnets that need to be flipped – he stands two steps below her, just staring, waiting. For what she wishes she knew, if for no other reason than to move this uncomfortable moment along. And then, he moves, he steps up beside her, and offers her his arm. It catches her off guard, this olive branch, and she hesitates - only briefly - before curling her fingers around the crook of his elbow. The magnets are flipped, and her body leans into his, drawn to him, and unable to resist.

* * *

><p>Tickets, popcorn, soda. They share the load as she leads the way into the cinema, popcorn in her hands, soda and tickets in his. The lighthearted comments Castle had spoken as they had stood in line for tickets, the gentle elbow in the ribs he had received from her as he had made fun of her taste in movies, had all helped to lift the awkwardness. They almost feel like <em>them<em> again: Friends, partners, almost-lovers.

"Back row?" he asks, between sips of his sugary drink.

Kate pauses mid-step, turns, and frowns at his words. "Dare I ask why?"

Her narrowed eyes make him smile. "Anne Francis stars in _Forbidden Planet_..." He doesn't quite sing the lyrics, but he makes an attempt as Beckett scowls at him.

"Why am I not surprised you're a _Rocky Horror _fan, Castle?" she asks.

His eyes light up. "Hey," he replies, grinning. "You knew what I was singing."

"That wasn't singing," she corrects him, as she turns and begins to ascend the steps again. "And this isn't a double feature."

"Back row, though?"

She doesn't respond, but continues up to the very back, a small smile playing on her lips as she does so.

"I bet you've dressed up as Magenta," he says, a leer in his tone, as they choose their seats.

Kate turns and gapes at him. "I have never. However, I may have dressed as Columbia. Once." She pauses, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. "Why, _Rocky? C_are to share your youthful Halloween indiscretions?"

He doesn't even blink. "Frank-N-Furter, actually. Six years ago."

"I weep for Alexis's innocence."

"She missed that particular Halloween event."

"Good to know," Beckett replies in a dry tone. She hands him the popcorn box and shrugs out of her coat, placing it neatly on a vacant seat beside her. She feels his eyes on her, on the thin, casual dress she had changed into after leaving the precinct. She can't ignore his eyes forever, not when they're burning through the thin material, overheating her already warm skin.

She meets his eyes, and he grins up at her from his seat, before he crams a handful of popcorn in his mouth, chewing noisily. She elbows him as she sits, a silent warning to chew with his mouth closed – and because she just caught him staring at her chest. His attention shifts, his mouth closes, and he watches the fellow cinema goers enter and choose their seats. They sit in a comfortable silence as the cinema fills, the silence only broken by him tilting the popcorn box in her direction and shaking it to attract her attention. His way of offering her some.

"So, just how many times have you seen this film, Beckett?"

She grins then. "Oh, I've lost count."

"Wow. Must be good."

"It is," she affirms. "But I've never seen it on the big screen before." She smiles, shrugs. "Couldn't resist."

She knows he loves these little moments, when she opens up just a little more, allows him to know things about her she had previously kept hidden. Like her love of Fifties science fiction films.

"Surely you've seen this before."

"Don't call me Shirley!" he replies, keeping a straight face, and not answering her question.

Beckett purses her lips, before scrunching up her nose at herself. Yeah, she had walked straight into that one.

The lights go down, and the screen lights up; she tries not to think about how close they're sitting, how good he smells, how the box of popcorn is sitting in his lap and every time she dips her hand into it she's so close to his crotch it's almost indecent. She _tries_ not to think such thoughts... But her traitorous mind goes there anyway. Her eyes flick down to his hand resting on his soda cup, and then travel slowly back up to his eyes, now glued to the screen. She turns her attention back to the film, but she leans her side just a little closer to his, her body gravitating to his. Not enough to touch shoulders, just seeking out the warmth that radiates off him.

She reaches for the popcorn, her eyes fixed on the screen, and she misses. Her hand slides against the curve of his thigh, her fingertips grazing the rough denim of his jeans, and she freezes. Out of the corner of her eye she sees his own pause, the slight tilt of his head. She pulls her hand back and turns to offer an apology, when her eyes fall to the soda cup before him; his lips are around the straw, but he's not drinking. He's thinking.

He's thinking about phone sex, and tequila - _and kissing her_. He _must_ be, because she sure as hell is.

Kate murmurs the apology, and tucks her hair behind her ears as she returns her attention to the screen.

But Castle is sneaky. Before she knows what's happening the box is deposited on her own lap, and he's dipping in for a handful of the salty, buttery, kernels. She feels the pressure as his hand swirls around in the box, feels him pushing down – and _oh god_ did it feel like this for him? Just a layer of popcorn and thin cardboard between her hand and his thighs, his crotch, his… And who the hell rests a box of popcorn so high on their lap?

She wants him so badly it aches. A hot, desperate need so painful she's barely keeping her composure in check. Her skin is flushed; she can feel the heat scorching through her, descending, to swirl a fire of desire low in her stomach, the flames licking at her core.

They're alone at the back, the whole row empty except for them. If the universe is going to offer up a situation such as this who is she to refuse it? The worst that can happen is he refuses her – again.

With a flick of her finger Kate knocks the mostly empty popcorn box off her lap as his hand moves in for another handful. He gets a handful of her thigh – of her exposed, warm, smooth skin - instead. He looks at her with wide eyes, and she shrugs. "It fell. Sorry."

"Mmmhmm," he replies, his fingers curling around her thigh, squeezing. "I guess it did." He sweeps the pads of his fingers up her leg, and then changes course, following the hem of her dress, which rests just above her knees. He lazily dips along her inner-thigh, tracing the curve of her leg as he follows the hem. She is silent, her eyes on the screen, and when his fingers lose contact with her skin she almost looks again. But then it's back, dragging slow and hot up her inner thigh, beneath her dress. Her head drops against his shoulder, and she spreads her legs so his hand can continue unhindered.

Permission granted.

Castle presses a kiss to the top of her head. His fingers skim up her toned thigh, ghosting along her skin with the barest of contact. She settles against him, avoiding his eyes. His fingers graze the thin satin of her panties and she tenses, her body stilling as she holds a breath. _The worst that will happen_, he thinks, _is that she punches his nose, kicks him in the crotch, and leaves_. He has experienced worse. Instead, she exhales a broken breath, and her body shudders against his; she leans in closer to him, sliding her legs just a little further apart. He fixes his eyes back on the screen, and takes a chance. His fingertips dip between her legs, tease up, and down, and he can feel her beneath the satin, achingly hot, swollen, and ready.

The film continues on the screen, Leslie Nielsen, robots, and alien planets - but their attention is elsewhere.

Kate grips the armrests, her nails digging deep into the matted fabric, her knuckles turning white. He drags her panties aside with nimble fingers, and delves into her wetness. She lifts her head from his shoulder, and looks up at him through the fog of arousal that's swirling around her brain and blurring her vision. She forgets how to breathe as he circles her with a talented finger, tiny revolutions around sensitive nerves. She shudders, inhales, and moves into him; her lips meet his, connecting, commanding, consuming.

She twists her torso, her hands releasing the armrests to frame his face. He makes a move to pull his hand from between her legs, so she presses her legs together, keeping his hand right where it is, keeping the pressure where she needs it. He doesn't falter. His lips part, and his tongue slides against hers; he breathes a low rumble of arousal into her mouth, his finger twitching between her legs.

His lips move across her jaw, trailing a hot, desperate line of pure want to her ear. "Let's get out of here," he murmurs.

Kate can only nod in response. She shifts her thighs, allowing him to free his hand, but he takes a moment to swirl around her one final time, and tease her entrance. She stands on shaky legs, smoothing down her dress.

Her underwear is still twisted, but it can stay like that for now. She anticipates that it won't be on for much longer. She laces her fingers through his and lets him lead her down the stairs, following the lights, and out the exit. They slip through the quiet lobby, silent, hands still clasped. When they push out the main door and into the night Castle eases his hand from hers, slips it around her shoulders and pulls her body against his. She holds her coat against her side with her other hand, and the warmth of his body against hers is enough. For now. For always.

"Your place, or mine?" he murmurs against her hair.

His is closer. "Mine," she replies. No family who share the space; no interruptions.

* * *

><p>He hails a cab, and she remains at his side, her body pressed close to his. She's quiet now, contemplative. He doesn't push her, not yet, content to hold her, and let the silence wrap around them. He moves away only once the cab pulls up, and holds the door open for her. He slides in next to her, tugging her against him once more. The communication is silent; a conversation passes between them in the slight quirk of her lips as his warm eyes hold hers, in her thigh, her knee, pressed hot and hard against his, in her side as it melds to his.<p>

It's silent in the back of the cab, until the thoughts he has been holding back escape.

"We need to talk." He breathes the words against her hair, loud enough for only her to hear.

"I know," she agrees. She lifts her head from his shoulder, smiles reassuring up at him, and links her fingers through his, squeezing with gentle pressure. "We will."

* * *

><p>"You lied to me."<p>

"Whatever do you mean, Detective?" he asks in an innocent tone, holding the door to her apartment lobby open for her.

"I saw you." Kate pauses as she enters the building, jabbing a finger into his chest to punctuate her point. She faces him, walking backwards, as she quotes, "_No beer, no women, no pool parlors, nothin'._" Spinning around, she uses the finger that had been on his chest to punch the elevator button. "I saw your lips, Castle."

"And why were you staring at my lips?" he teases, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement.

She almost rolls her eyes at that question. "Why do you think?"

He stands at her side, waiting for the elevator to descend. "I think you want to kiss me." He turns and raises his eyebrows suggestively.

Sliding her body against his, her chest pressed to his, she guides his hand up her skirt until it meets the tangled material of her panties. "I think I want to do more than that."

"Isn't that uncomfortable?" His voice is low, deep, his lips so close to hers.

"Immensely." She feels his finger hook under the thin waistband, and bats his hand away. "Doesn't mean they're coming off yet though." His mouth slides to her ear, his tongue sweeping over her earlobe, his lips following. Sucking. Licking. She shudders against him. "So," she begins, breathless, "How many times have _you _seen _Forbidden Planet_?" He chuckles against her ear, and she laughs against him. "I thought as much."

The elevator dings, and they both separate. She can feel the extra warmth in her skin, knows her cheeks must be a pinker hue. His eyes burn with arousal, and she wonders if there will be much talking tonight.

He is beside her, in the small elevator cab, his side pressed to hers.

"Three years," Castle growls into her ear, as they ascend.

Kate shivers at his words. "I know." There's a rueful edge to her tone, knowing how much time has been lost.

"And all I needed to do was get you liquored up?"

She frowns then. "What?"

"Phone. Sex."

Oh.

"And you promised we wouldn't act like it had never happened."

"I got scared," she whispers, her voice hoarse.

"Of what?"

"Of losing you." She sighs and shakes her head. "I didn't want to lose what we have."

"I would never allow that."

"I... If this is a one-time thing..."

He hears the fear in her voice. "I could never allow that."

The elevator stops and the doors open, revealing the empty corridor beyond. Kate steps out, her hand grasped in his once more. She only drops his hand to fumble for her keys. She almost has them when his hands fall to her hips; he spins her around, and pushes her back against the door. He slips a thigh between her legs, applies pressure, a slight rub of friction, exactly where she needs it most, and captures her lips with his, sliding his hot mouth against hers. She releases a wordless moan into his mouth; his tongue slides against her, and she forgets her keys, forgets everything in that moment except him. Gripping his ass she tugs him closer, adding to the pressure between her legs, of his denim jeans sliding against her over-sensitized bunch of nerves. She explores the textures and contours, nipping at his upper lip, sucking his lower lip between hers, slanting her mouth over his and moving in time. It's fervent and desperate, unfettered and free. He's sliding the zipper of her dress down her left side when she comes back to herself. Keys. She needs her keys. She breaks the kiss with a hint of frustration.

"Inside."

"You," he breathes back.

"The apartment," she corrects. Turning in his arms, his hands curl at her waist while she slides the key into the lock. He presses the pads of his fingers against her hips, massaging small circles through her thin dress, and her eyes slip closed as she turns the key and opens the door. His fingers stay in place, holding her close, as she leads them both into her apartment; she feels him, hard and ready, against her ass, his hands refusing to let her go.

He kicks the door closed, and her back loses contact with his warmth for a moment, before he pulls her back against him once more, and whispers into her ear, "What do you want, Kate?"

"You."

"For one night?"

She shakes her head. With her back to him it's easy to be honest. "I'm not good at this, Castle. At relationships. But I _want_ to be good with you. I think we can be good together." She inhales a sharp breath and feels him still behind her.

He's silent for a moment, his nose tracing the shape of her ear. "I _know_ we'll be good," he affirms, murmuring the words into her ear with no trace of doubt in his tone.

With a rueful smile on her lips, she turns, and meets his eyes again. "I'm sorry, for going against my word. I…" She falters. "I hope you know by now that isn't like me."

He nods, his hands falling to her hips once more, caressing her lower back, easing her dress up a little higher with each sweep of his fingers. "I do know." Tugging her forward, he wraps his arms around her and holds her lithesome body against his. She folds into his embrace, her own arms snaking around his neck, her lips grazing his jawline. Her body melds to his; she can't remember the last time she felt like this.

She holds back words she isn't ready to say, and steps out of his arms. She clasps his hand, and leads him to her bedroom. Her dress hangs off her shoulders, the straps threatening to slip down her arms. He bunches the hem in his hands, and slides it up her sides; she raises her arms so he can drag the dress up over her head, and toss it aside.

She stands before him, no bra, bunched panties, and offers him a shy smile. She sucks her lower lip between her teeth, flashing her top teeth, and waits…

Castle stands, mesmerized. His eyes roam over her exposed flesh, and he needs to learn it all. Fully clothed, he steps up to her, smiles, and slides his lips across hers. Briefly. Gently. His fingertips stroke at her hips, and he walks her back, until the backs of her knees meet the mattress and she sits. He nudges her up the bed, coaxes her legs wider apart with a feather-light sweep of his hands up her thighs, and makes a place for himself.

He starts at her ankle, his lips touching the soft, smooth skin. His tongue traces a small indentation just above her right ankle, and his breath ghosts across her skin as he pulls back just enough to ask, "How did this happen?"

She lifts her head, and beneath eyelids heavy from need she gazes down at the scar his tongue is tracing once more. "Kick stand," she replies, her tone subdued, peaceful.

The tip of his tongue leaves her skin again. "How old were you?"

"Eighteen."

He kisses a path up her shin, dropping a kiss to her kneecap and making her squirm. He raises her knee up, her heel planted into the mattress, and soothes a scar marring the pale skin of her inner thigh. "This one?"

_Oh. S_he gets it now. "Walking along a tree branch. I slipped." She still shudders at that memory. "I was thirteen."

He chuckles against her skin when he finds her tattoo. "I know that story."

"Actually," she replies with a hint of sadness, "You don't. I was nineteen when I got that, Castle."

He nods in rueful understanding, his eyes once more taking in the design. He kisses it, accepts it. Moving up to her waist, he moves across a little and kisses a scar beside her hip, beneath her navel. "Appendix?"

Kate settles back against the mattress and smiles at his guess. "At twenty-one."

He continues up, kissing a trail of exploration between her breasts, lingering to draw a nipple between his lips. He teases it gently between his teeth, soothes it with his tongue. Her chest juts up, encouraging him with an arch of her back, a slow escape of breath from her parted lips.

His lips drag up to her shoulder, to the side of her arm. She turns her head to the scar his attention is now fixed on. "Twenty-seven. A bullet grazed me. Espo saved my ass that day."

"Remind me to thank him."

Keeping his weight off her, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of her face, he nuzzles her jaw, and then focuses his attention on the small scar on her chin. "And this one?" He breathes the question against her lips.

"I was six," she replies in a hushed tone. "The roller-skates were new and I hadn't mastered the art of stopping. I hit a fence post."

"Ouch." His lips cover hers before she can respond, slanting and sliding and claiming her.

Her fingers grip at his shirt, clenching the smooth material in her fists, and she tugs him closer, needing to feel his weight upon her. Her lips slip from his, and she drags a trail of heat to his ear, where she murmurs, "You're wearing too many clothes." She releases his shirt, and toys with a button, circling it with the pad of her index finger. "I can help." With precise movements, she shoves him upwards and he moves to his knees. She sits up and begins working on his buttons, sliding each one through its buttonhole, revealing his warm skin beneath. She tugs his shirt out of his pants, while he works on the cuffs, pushes it off his shoulders, down his arms, and casts it aside.

She helps him with his belt, eases his jeans down his hips, and then pushes with eager hands while he wiggles the pants down his legs, kicking out of them, his shoes, his socks. It isn't graceful or sexy, it's _now, now, need you, need this, now_. She allows herself to give into temptation and scrapes a manicured fingernail along his length through his boxers. A tease, just for a moment, to make him feel a little of what she felt in the cinema. She cups him gently, massaging him with nimble fingers. She leans into him, and her grinning lips meet his. And then she releases him, pushing him back with a palm to his warm chest. He takes direction well, sitting, and repositioning himself onto his back.

She straddles his knees before he has a chance to settle, tugging his boxers down, and moving up to his hips. Lowering herself, she brushes against him, damp satin against hot skin, swaying her hips, but staying in control. Moving over him, her lips hover above his, grinning down at him. Happy, because she's letting go. Happy, because a wall she never talks about has crumbled. Happy, because of him. With a loving touch he tucks her hair behind her ears, and then pulls her down for a searing kiss.

And then neither can wait any longer. There's almost three years of foreplay between them, and the need is just too raw. Kate pushes up, shifts her hips, eases her panties to the side, and guides him in.

He pushes inside her, while she slides down and takes his entire length. Her palms rest on his stomach, feeling the fluttering muscles beneath, and her head falls back as her body adjusts to him. She could stay like this forever, her inner muscles gripping him, the feel of him beneath her, just being with him. She could stay…

_No_.

Friction. She needs… needs to move. Now. Her hands fall behind her, to grip at his thighs, her back arches, and she shifts her hips, finds a rhythm.

Castle's palms run up her taut thighs, the curve of her flat stomach, and cup her breasts. He holds the weight of her in his hands, his thumbs brushing across her nipples, while he meets each downward motion of hers with an upward thrust of his own.

With each sweep of her pelvis against him, with each rotation of her hips, the friction builds, delicious, electric jolts of pleasure. Her knees slide further apart, allowing him in so deep that each thrust hits her sharp and hard, sending her so close to the edge of release that she can barely hold on.

She clings to control; waiting for him.

Her breath comes out in short gasps in time with each of his thrusts, her eyes closed as she revels in the feeling of him moving inside her. Removing her hands from his thighs, she straightens her spine, and leans forward, gazing down at him through her curtain of hair. His hands slide from her breasts, gliding down her torso, resting at her waist. She lies upon him, one hand pressed firm into the mattress keeping her weight off him, the other back to keeping the tiny scrap of underwear well out of the way. She angles her hips, just enough to allow for longer strokes – but he's beyond that point by now.

Short, sharp thrusts keep her teetering on the edge of control and oblivion. Her lips graze his shoulder, dropping encouraging, but desperate, kisses to his clavicle, his neck, anywhere she can taste him. The heat builds within her, coils so tight she can hardly breathe. His arms wrap around her, holding her close, clinging to her as his last tether of control snaps.

With a low, guttural moan, he fills her, his final short, broken thrusts enough to break her own control. She lets go, of everything; both hands rake through his hair as she stills, and then breaks apart above him, her body shuddering against his as her orgasm washes over her. Her muscles settle, and she rests upon him, her head on his shoulder, her lips skirting his collarbone.

Boneless and sated, they take a moment to just breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

**_The Dead Pool_ post-ep.**

* * *

><p>There are sudden occasions, fleeting moments that descend upon her with haste, and vanish just as quick, when she is reminded of what Castle once meant to her. Each time it feels different as it penetrates her heart, looks different in her mind, always short-lived and unique, just a snowflake of a memory melting on her tongue before she can speak the words out loud.<p>

Castle could have done anything, could have been anyone; one day, she doesn't know when, he picked up a pen, and started to write - and he never stopped. One day, she _still_ remembers when, she picked up one of his books, and started to read his words - and never stopped.

It comes rushing back to her now, in his cozy bed, her body curled beneath satin-soft sheets and the warm comforter, the memory of a mother she lost. She rests on her side, facing the door, head held up by her hand, chin cradled in her palm, elbow deep in the pillow, just listening. He taps away in the next room, the soft click of keys filtering in, the pause, the quick successive taps on the backspace button as he alters a sentence, the more persistent click of the mouse. Typing, deleting, rewriting - until satisfied. She can hear the process; she wants to witness it.

Sliding out from beneath the blankets, Kate tugs the robe from over the back of the chair beside her, slips her arms in, adjusts it around her shoulders, and frees her hair. She ties the robe tightly at her waist as she pads to the door. She leans against the frame, and smiles.

He looks up, finds her watching him, finds her smiling as he types. He focuses on the screen again, taps out one last sentence, adds the period, and raises an eyebrow at her as he lifts his gaze to meet hers. "Hey."

Kate soaks up the warmth in his voice, and it expands within her, rises, fills her. It goes beyond her heart, flows through her veins, drives a heat up to her face. It sinks as it fills her; pushed down, it drops to places that tingle and crave friction, and she crosses a foot over the other, ankle bones brushing, squeezing her thighs, to subdue her body's needs. So demanding; it's barely been an hour since she was writhing beneath him.

The jealousy she had watched flare up in his eyes earlier has passed. Her _one-writer girl_ comment, a work-friendly way of calling them exclusive, had eased any silly concerns he had harbored during Conrad's time at the precinct, and from work she had accompanied him to his loft, for dinner and a glass of wine. And then _more_. With her body pressed against his on the soft, leather couch, she had merely parted her lips, her tongue catching a droplet of red wine on her bottom lip, when he had framed her face in his hands, and caught the smear of red with his own lips. She had followed him to his bed, both aware it was her first time in it; her arms had snaked around his neck and she had tugged him down as she had eased back onto the billowing mattress. Eyes locked in the softly-lit room, clothing discarded, he had moved inside her with slow, heated strokes, taking his time with her, hands exploring, lips desperately seeking skin. Soft sobs left her lips as he eased her ever closer to release, and all she could think, the only word her brain could form in the pleasure-addled mist, was _love._ Love, love, love.

She has fallen in love with him.

She feels the warm burn of love while she stands, watching him in his office, his own eyes now fixed on her. But his fingers remain poised above the keys, ready to resume, the need to write always present.

The memory of a cold January evening, and the days, months, years that followed, clings to her and the door frame holds her up. It's funny what has sparked it on this evening, almost strange, she thinks, that the distant sound of keys tapping out a story could bring it all back to her. All the things that can never really be forgotten: phone calls that went unanswered, the voice and face of the detective who waited at their door, the pain, the funeral, the emptiness in her heart that ached more than she could bear at times, the file, crime scene photos, new evidence…

He knows this about her, knows why she is who she is, how she became this person, chose this career, why she kept him at arm's length for so long. Some days, she just wants to forget. _It is wiser, in every circumstance, to forget, to cultivate the art of forgetting. To remember is to face the enemy. The truth lies in remembering._ She wants to know his story, make it a part of her like he has done with hers. Her lips part, she hesitates, swallows, and then through those parted lips the question flows off her tongue.

"Why write?" she asks, pushing herself away from the door-frame. She pads softly to where he sits, until her hip leans against the pointed corner of the sturdy wooden desk, and she stops. She turns to him, the desk still her crutch, and she feels the hardness of it through the thin material of her robe – her body nude beneath it - but she stays there, closing in on his personal space, cocking an eyebrow, holding his gaze, feeling the slight, but sharp, pain of the desk. "You could have chosen any career, why did you choose to write?"

"I remember a conversation, in a bar, late one night, about how it was my destiny." He observes her as he speaks, and she remains silent as she considers her words, but he can see that it's not enough for her tonight; he closes the laptop lid, glances around surreptitiously, like he's about to share a secret, like no one else in the world must know, both aware no one could possibly overhear. "It chose me," he says, his voice low in the dimly-lit office, confined to the space within the bookshelf dividers than keep the rest of the loft out.

"Okay," she replies, hip still pressed against the corner of the desk. Despite the discomfort this position creates, she doesn't step away from the desk, she isn't satisfied, because that can't be the end, there must be more. Castle pens novels, not short-stories.

"What?" The smile on his lips falters, and the corners of his mouth twitch up as he struggles to keep it in place. He's not used to her asking such questions; he's not used to being observed.

She shifts, sits carefully on the edge of his desk, just the tips of her toes brushing the smooth hardwood floor, and leans in closer to him. "I know about Damien, but I just feel there's more to this story."

His eyes never flit from hers as he replies, "It was a lonely impulse of delight."

She finds herself blinking rapidly, her eyes breaking the contact, shifting as her brain searches for why those words are so familiar to her. Her eyes drift back to his, and she smiles. "Yeats," she tells him, and he nods, his lips shifting down in the corners, just slightly, to show he's impressed. She doesn't fight the grin, allows her lips to part, allows her joy, that's more than a little smug, to show through. _Yes, Castle, I know things too_. "So, lonely, how?" She wants to know more about this man who shadows her, who irritates and frustrates her, who probably thinks he knows just how many times he has saved her life, yet will always be out by one.

His eyes darken, and he pulls back. He retreats, leaning back in his chair, but his eyes still hold hers, and the haze of sadness in them them pushes her back until her spine is thanking her but her heart is not.

"I'm sorry," she tells him. "You don't have to answer that, Castle."

She expects an uncomfortable silence to fall between them; she doesn't expect him to speak. "There are reasons why I started writing, why I kept at it, and why I haven't stopped." He must feel the distance that has come between them, because he slides his chair back and stands.

"Tell me?" she asks. She won't push if he declines, but she needed to try one last time.

He eases her off his desk with soft palms pressing into her hips, fingers splayed and following the curves of her. He leads her to the couch, her smaller hand tucked in his. She doesn't press herself in against him, instead sits facing him, legs up under her, body turned to his. She listens, her face serious, while he slowly tells her his story, and throughout it his voice remains hesitant, and his eyes hold fear. He weaves a tale of a boy, _too_ young, a long-lost father, and a certain secret agent who inspired him then, and inspires him still. He weaves a tale of a teenager, who made mistakes, and a man who to this day still feels undeserving of the success he has achieved.

She hadn't expected there to be sadness in his answer. He had brought her joy in the aftermath of her mom's death, had presented her with a world to get lost in, a place to escape to.

Her chin lifts, and her eyes find his. He's so close now she can feel the heat radiating off him, and it's warming his eyes again, pushing away the sadness, and bringing back that familiar spark. Her hand skims across her thigh, until she can feel his skin beneath hers, his restless fingers the only sign of the emotions he is wrestling with. She lays her palm upon his hand, and it ceases the drumming of his fingers. He flips his hand, laces their fingers, squeezes, and she feels a surge of love. "Thank you for sharing that with me." Her voice is raw, her words laced with more emotion than she usually allows.

He smiles at her, but the fear is still vivid and harsh, clouding his eyes, tightening his features. Her heart grows too heavy for her chest, dropping like an anvil to the dark pit of her stomach. She wraps her arms around his neck, and presses her body to his, turning her head until her lips find his neck, and she places comforting kisses to his skin. "It doesn't change how I feel about you," she promises, the words murmured against his jaw.

He relaxes against her, like a breath held for too long finally released, and his hands come to rest against her lower back, warm and firm.

Her lips travel down to drop hot, open-mouthed kisses to his neck once more, and she feels his pulse as she slides her lips across his skin, above tendons, and arteries; she needs to help him forget the memories she has stirred tonight. "Come back to bed," she whispers the words that aren't quite a command, but more than a suggestion.

Castle shifts and meets her lips, and the answer is in his kiss. On closing the lid of his laptop he had signaled the end of his writing for the evening, but if Nikki should call out to him again she knows he will answer. There's a sadness lingering within her; she has wrapped a melancholy around them both, and now she needs to fix it, needs to send the darkness skittering back to its Plutonian shores. Pulling back from his warmth, she weaves her fingers between his, helps his off the couch with a gentle tug, and leads him back to the bedroom. They slide under the cool covers, and gravitate together, legs and torsos and hands, sliding and connecting and mooring them to one another.

* * *

><p>The orange shades of morning light filtering in through the blinds draws her from sleep. She awakes before him, turning onto her side to check the time on her phone. Bleary eyes focus as she presses the button that lights up the display, and it's only then that she sees the missed call icon lit up. She brings the phone to her ear, hears Royce's voice, and frowns in concern, and then confusion.<p>

It's the phone call that follows - the one she answers - that tears her world apart. She sits shaken, staring at her now silent phone as all the broken pieces of her life fall down around her like icy January rain. The snowflake memory settles in her heart, and the cold envelops her - and it's time. It's time to tell Castle about a broken teenage girl and his books, because she's going to need him like that all over again.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

**"It is wiser, in every circumstance, to forget, to cultivate the art of forgetting. To remember is to face the enemy. The truth lies in remembering." – From Anita Brookner's Look at Me.**

**The Plutonian shores belong to The Raven, which belong to Poe.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:**

**Starts pre-series, briefly mentions events in Under the Gun, and then moves on to become a To Love and Die in L.A filler. This chapter is Royce/Beckett heavy, and involves M rated scenes between them, so the obvious answer is to skip it if it's not your thing. Leaving me brainless guest reviews about how gross it is is immature, laughed at, and deleted. The challenge I set myself here was to write their relationship from a different angle to that in_ On-Call_, and if you can't appreciate a writer who challenges herself, then you won't understand the point of this. The next chapter will make sense without having read this one.**

* * *

><p>"Hey, Kid," Royce said, watching Beckett as she slumped down in her chair, tired, and angry, and blaming herself. "You did good."<p>

Kate tore her head out of her hands, and looked up, forcing her bleary eyes to focus on her Training Officer. "He's gonna get away with it," she reminded him, voice breaking in anger at herself. "Because of me."

"He won't," Royce told her. "They're out there right now looking for him."

"I almost had him," she lamented.

"He shot at you, if it's anyone's fault he got away it's mine for not having your back."

"You had your own situation to deal with," she reminded him. "He was right in front of me, and I choked." With a gun pointed at her, all her training had meant nothing in that moment; her courage had faltered, and the suspect had fired - off to her left, a warning shot, not really aimed at her, but enough to give him a chance to bolt while she reached for her own gun. She had fired, and missed him, and she'd never felt more green than in that moment, a Rookie in over her head. God, she hated herself for it. And now Royce was working through the paperwork with her, helping her with all the damn forms she had to fill out for discharging her weapon.

"Enough," her T.O said. "There are people on this, there's nothing more we can do tonight." He pushed a form across the desk to her. "Sign that and then let's go."

Beckett frowned as she read over the report and signed her name, but didn't move from behind the desk. "Go where?" she asked, handing him back the paperwork.

"To a little bar I know."

She shook her head, and folded her arms across her chest. "No. Thank you, but no."

Royce stood, and gestured for her to stand. "Stop being so damn stubborn."

"My dad-"

"Won't care if you have a drink tonight. You're coming, and that's final."

* * *

><p>From the moment the wine glass touched her lips she knew it wouldn't be just one drink. Not tonight. The wine was sharp on her tongue, it slid down her throat like razor blades, slicing through her resolve, opening old wounds, until she was bleeding out. With a loosened tongue, all her anguish over the day's failures flowed out of her.<p>

"Let it out, Kid."

When she had finished berating herself, she met his eyes, and huffed out a short frustrated breath. "I'm sorry."

"Are you done?"

She nodded.

His hand dropped to her thigh, so casually, like it wasn't the first time he had ever touched her like that, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You did nothing wrong today. If that shot you'd fired off had hit him I'd be introducing you to a whole new bunch of forms." Her lips remained down-turned, and her long lashes hid her eyes from him, and he knew he was in for one hell of a fight before she would let this go. "We'll get him tomorrow. Forget about it now."

When she opened her mouth to argue, he lifted his hand from her thigh and held it up to silence her. "We'll get him tomorrow," he repeated, his raised eyebrows and creased forehead telling her he was done discussing this.

Kate released a long sigh, and dropped her shoulders in defeat. "We'll get him tomorrow," she agreed, before draining her glass and shifting closer to him. "But I can't forget."

"I know."

He raised a hand, and ordered another round, and they let the alcohol take the edge off the day.

* * *

><p>She was in awe of him, and she could admit that to herself. There was an air about him that piqued her interest and kept her guessing. He seemed so battle-hardened, so wise, so much more than she would ever be.<p>

"How you doing, Kate?"

The use of her name broke her out of her reverie, his hand was back on her thigh, and she blinked to focus her tired eyes on him. "Hmmm?"

"You okay?"

He was smiling, watching her in amusement, and something else. Something a little darker, a little more primal. "Yeah," she told him. "I'm doing okay now. Thank you."

"Anytime."

His voice was like gravel, low and rough, scraping against her skin as his words vibrated around her. Everything about him was just a little dangerous, just a little dark, he was untouchable, off-limits, and her body craved that. Alone, together, in this bar, as he leaned in to speak into her ear to be heard, an image appeared in her mind, a scene, a stolen moment, her head turning, their lips meeting, those vibrations coursing through her body.

She couldn't resist the temptation. Her eyes locked on his, and she saw it all shining back at her, how badly he wanted her, how desperately he was clinging to his own resolve, how wrong it would be...

She stopped caring, stopped thinking, and pressed her hot, open mouth to his.

And he didn't pull back.

His arm slipped around her waist; he tugged her closer, and slid his tongue past their joined lips, slick and wet in her mouth as he explored. Her body pressed to his, she twisted in the booth and framed his face with her hands, holding him in place, refusing to allow him to change his mind and pull back. The table in front of them kept her from throwing a leg over his, kept her from straddling his lap, rocking her hips and grinding down on him.

He eased his hand down from her waist, until it slid down between her thighs, and he pressed the course denim of her jeans hard between her legs. A low moan passed between them, from her lips to his, and they needed to get out of there. Now.

* * *

><p>She tugged him into her apartment, stripping him of his clothes, her own, and left a trail of material in their wake as she led him to her bedroom. He pushed her down on the mattress, his body covering hers, and she arched up as his calloused fingers dipped between her splayed legs. His roughened pads were hard against her slick, smooth folds, scraping against her clit, sliding, and circling, before pushing inside her.<p>

"Fuck," she murmured low and long under her breath. She rocked against his hand, craving that delicious friction that would undo her. He curled his fingers, teased her, and then withdrew. His fingers slipped out of her, the crinkle of foil filled the room, and before she could miss the feel of him against her he was back, every hard, thick inch of him stretching her, filling her.

The meeting of their bodies was too hindered by alcohol, and the need for release was too desperate to make it about anything other than getting off. He eased one of her legs up to rest her foot on his shoulder, and then leaned forward, slamming into her flexible body. Their rhythm lacked grace, and she felt him even sharper within her as she rocked her hips, each undulation an attempt to meet his pelvis with her own, to pull him deeper. His strokes grew faster, shorter, harder, sharper. The exquisite friction became too much, and when his fingers slid between them, and he pressed against her clit, it took just seconds for her to climax. And he followed close behind.

* * *

><p>He was gone when she awoke. The crinkled sheets, the musky scent of them still lingering in the air, and the torn foil the only signs he had been there.<p>

She arrived at the precinct and it was like it had never happened - and they continued on.

Until it happened again. A rough day. Alcohol. Him. Her apartment. Waking alone.

And again.

_And again._

And in between they never spoke of it.

It had to stop. She was falling in love with him; she was falling in love with Royce, who was more closed off than herself, who she knew almost nothing about, yet who knew more about her mother than she had ever allowed anyone to know before; Royce, whose apartment she had never seen, who never spoke of his life outside of the precinct, who kept too much of himself guarded from her. She was falling in love with him, and it had to stop, because she knew he could never love her back.

* * *

><p>She moved up. He moved on.<p>

He turned up on her doorstep, after his last day at the precinct, more drunk than she had ever seen him, and she was too sober to deal with it.

"We're done, Royce. It's over."

He swayed, and leaned against the door-frame to stay on his feet. "Gonna miss you, Kid."

"You made this decision," she reminded him. He could have stayed, but a job offer he refused to talk about had attracted his attention and he was leaving.

"We had a good time."

"We did," she agreed. She held her head high, her even, confident tone belying her pain. "But our time is over."

"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, it is." He rested his head against the wood, and blinked rapidly. "Take care of yourself."

She offered him a ghost of a smile, laced with sadness. "You too."

And then he eased himself away from his crutch, stepped back, and she closed the door. On him. On them.

She spent the rest of the evening coming to terms with the loss of him.

And then she moved on too.

* * *

><p>But her skin remembered him, remembered the feel of his calloused hands on her. She'd hear the word 'kid' and in her mind it would be his voice, but it never was. She refused to return to that bar, but sometimes, on quiet evenings, alone in her apartment, she would sip that wine, and taste him on her tongue. He stayed with her through the years, a voice in her head guiding her through tough situations, or a phantom touch, like a hand on her back, guiding her through the corridors of the precinct. Always with her, keeping her head up; her lifeline. Through it all she missed him fiercely.<p>

And then he showed up; in an instant her heart's growing fascination with Castle was torn away, thrown back onto Royce. He took her back to that bar, took her hand in his, and made her ache for him all over again.

Arresting him tore her heart apart.

His death tore her world apart.

* * *

><p>Kate sits on the couch in the lavish hotel room in Los Angeles, and brings her phone to her ear. She blocks out the sounds of Castle clinking glasses together, and listens.<p>

She listens to Royce's voice, a ghost speaking to her now, his words chilling her, her own regrets clamping around her heart.

She had missed his call. If she had answered would he still be alive now? She feels the tears prick at her eyes, threatening to fall, but she refuses them that freedom. She replays his message, again, suppressing her emotions this time, listening for clues. But there's nothing more to be gained from his message, and so she ends the call. She doesn't delete it - she might never.

"Anything?" Castle asks as he joins her on the couch.

She lifts her red-rimmed eyes to him and shakes her head.

"And, in the note?" he asks.

Again she can merely shake her head.

He hands her a glass of wine, which she accepts with a slight shake in her hand. She's investigating Royce's murder, listening to his voice, reading his words, and it's all so much harder than she had imagined. She is grateful for Castle's stubbornness; for once she is thankful he didn't listen to her and followed her to L.A. She isn't convinced she could have done this without him.

"Royce," she murmurs his name into her wine glass, before taking a slow sip. She swallows, and glances up to meet Castle's eyes. He's desperately curious for information, and she's holding back. She won't allow him to listen to the voice message, and she won't allow him to read the letter, but she needs to give him more than she has. "I was so in awe of him, Castle, when I first met him," she tells him, smiling at the memory, smiling through her pain. "I just hung on his every word. And then, later, I realized he was just making up stories to mess with me. I can't believe that I'm never gonna see him again." It hurts her heart to speak those thoughts out loud, makes it clench and twist in her chest.

"You know what I thought when I first met you?"

"Mmm?" she asks, confused as to why this has suddenly become about her.

"That you were a mystery I was never gonna solve. Even now, after spending all this time with you, I'm still amazed at the depths of your strength, your heart. And your hotness."

She gets it then. "You're not so bad yourself, Castle."

He takes her wine glass from her, and places it on the table in front of them. He turns back to her, his hands frame her face, and she allows him to angle her chin so he can cover her lips with his own. The kiss is slow and soft, languid and gentle. It's love tinged with sorrow, apologies, wishes and regrets.

_I'm sorry you lost him; I wish I could take away your pain. _

_If only I hadn't missed his call._

He breaks the kiss, and strokes a hand across her cheek, catching a tear as it slips down. "You loved him."

She smiles at him, and allows another tear to fall before she regains control. "A long time ago," she admits.

He takes her hand in his, and helps her to her feet. "Let's go to bed," he tells her.

He wraps an arm around her, bringing her body to his, and she leans into his warmth as they make their way to their shared room. He doesn't prod her for details, and for that she's grateful. She loved Royce once; she loves Castle now.

Her only regret is missing that phone call.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Knockout **_**filler/post-ep.**

* * *

><p>Her arms wrap around Esposito and she embraces her friend, her cheek grazing his, bodies flush. It's a touch awkward with the audience, with Ryan and Castle flanking them, quietly waiting.<p>

They used to do this, used to find comfort in one another, without the clothing, without any strings or other attachments. They ceased the touches, the evenings spent with one another, years ago. It's platonic now, friends with a history bringing one another comfort, but the flashes of memories take hold, and she finds herself pulling back out of the embrace quickly, offering him a soft smile as she does so.

From Espo's arms she turns and is pulled into Ryan's. It's a brief hug, just enough to seal the deal made here tonight.

Ryan and Espo leave without passing comment on Castle's hesitance, on the fact he's lingering in the background, not making any move to follow them. They've sensed a change in the relationship, but now is not the time to ask questions. For now they will let her and Castle be.

She turns to Castle once she has closed the door, and it's just the two of them in her dimly-lit apartment, standing at opposite ends of her living room, staring one another down.

"I'm not leaving tonight," he tells her.

"I know," she responds, the words expelled on a short puff of air. She would have asked him to stay anyway; she's thankful she doesn't need to. When she awakes tomorrow she will be dressing for her captain's funeral. The losses this year are suffocating her, too many betrayals to be forgiven.

She might need him when she wakes up. She might need him now.

"I'm sorry," he tells her.

She pauses mid-step at those words. He has spoken them too much recently, but in that moment she is transported back to a hangar, carried out of it against her will; she is outside, the harsh wind whipping around her, and pressed back until she feels the cold, hard body of a car jutting into her, his own body leaning over her and keeping her from rushing in and being killed. She feels his hand covering her mouth, feels his breath as it warms and dampens her palm now pressed against his own lips. His low, murmured, raw and pained, _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry_.

Her fingers clench around the kitchen island; her churning stomach, the wavering in her legs, threaten to drag her to the floor. "Don't," she forces out harshly. "Don't say it again."

He frowns then. "I'm sorry?" he asks, innocent and concerned. Oblivious to the effect his words have had on her.

"Stop apologizing," she warns, her teeth clenched, her stomach roiling.

An anger has been lingering between them since an argument, nights ago, before they lost Montgomery. Right here, in this apartment, words had been thrown back and forth, and he had walked out. They haven't spoken of it, haven't had a chance to work past it. They hadn't even spoken until her hoarse voice screamed at him to put her down, to let her help her captain.

But he's still here, standing near her couch, a few steps closer to her but keeping his distance. He hasn't walked out. He said he wouldn't. She's terrified of believing him, of trusting him to stay. She's wary of another person she cares deeply for betraying her. The year has taken its toll. And it's only half over. But through all the loss, amidst all the frustrations, something happened. They changed. She's still learning how to let him in, but she's done with words tonight.

Throwing him a sad attempt at a smile, she pushes away from the kitchen island, and moves over to him. Reaching out her hand, she holds it up, until their palms meet, and his fingers fill the spaces between her own. "Come to bed." It sounds more like a question than a command. He dips his head in affirmation and follows her to her bedroom.

They find forgiveness between the sheets.

* * *

><p>Too many gravestones now bear the names of those dear to her. Too many times has she borne the weight of another death. Her shoulders falter now under the strain, but it goes unseen. Muscles taut, she moves through the cemetery, her family moving with her, bearing the weight with her this time.<p>

When she speaks, her words hold only truths.

_"Roy Montgomery taught me what it meant to be a cop. He taught me that we are bound by our choices, but we are more than our mistakes. Captain Montgomery once said to me that, for us, there is no victory. There are only battles. And, in the end, the best you could hope for is to find a place to make your stand. And if you're very lucky, you find someone willing to stand with you. Our captain would want us to carry on the fight. And even if there is one…"_

She hears her name, yelled in alarm, feels the sharp pain in her chest. It catches her off-guard, she stumbles backwards, confused, and in pain.

Kate hits the dirt hard, but it's Castle's body that has sent her to the ground, and she feels the impact in her bones, the reverberations inside her skull as her head falls back.

The pain burns through her, and she clenches her teeth as her vision blurs.

Castle lets out a low groan, landing beside her to avoid slamming his body on top of hers. Last night's rain had done little to soften the ground beneath them.

There's yelling, so much noise around them. She sucks air into her lungs, trying to get her breath back, but the short, sharp gasps of air only cause her more pain, and the dizziness is threatening to win this one. The fear and confusion swirls around them, a flurry of activity as people spread out around them. She feels the vibrations beneath her, jolting through her, as people run. So much yelling, so much noise.

And then there's a hand on her, moving over her uniform, searching, frantic.

She understands then, becomes aware of what has happened. She can't recall hearing the noise of the shot being fired off, just her name, just Castle trying to save her.

"It's okay," she wheezes. "Vest, remember?" She's winded from hitting the ground hard, and she'll be surprised if she doesn't have a cracked rib or two. Her chest burns, her lungs refuse to fill completely, she feels like vomiting, but she's alive.

Castle moves to crouch beside her, offering a hand to help her up. But the yells of "stay down!" from various voices around them result in her taking his hand to tug him back down to the earth. She doesn't think her legs would have held her up anyway.

"How many shots?" she asks him, because she doesn't know, but there's one currently resting in Kevlar just above her heart, and she hopes it stopped there.

"Two at least."

"You heard two shots?"

"No. I felt one."

"What?" she gasps out. She sees it then, the torn, charred material on his arm, the red stain that's spreading out. "Castle."

"It grazed me as I pulled you down." He gives her a smile, but it's pained. "I'm okay."

"You're not- You're not okay," she says, incredulous. "Castle, you've been shot."

"I promise you it's just a graze. Bounced off me, that's all."

"It was aiming for my head," she surmises, her voice grim.  
>He nods once.<p>

A circle of uniforms have surrounded them; Castle is restless, wanting to push himself to his feet, get them both out of there. She calls to LT. "We need a medic," she tells him. "Castle's wounded."

"They're on their way," LT responds. "Scene is secure."

"The shooter?"

LT shakes his head, letting her know he's gone. They didn't get him.

"Dammit," she curses through clenched teeth.

"My daughter?" Castle asks. "Is everyone else okay?"

"Just two shots, which you both intercepted," LT confirms. "Everyone else is fine."

Castle releases a breath, and his face changes, contorts, the pain in his arm catching up with him.

Beckett rolls then, pushes herself painfully to her knees, blinking against the waves of dizziness, the nausea, and reaches for her wounded partner. She's still struggling to suck in a proper breath, can sense she's on the verge of hyperventilating, and God could her head just stop pounding for five seconds, _please_. Focusing on him, she rips his already torn sleeve, murmuring a 'sorry' as she does so.

"We're not allowed to apologize, remember," he grunts out, his voice pained as she probes gently at his wound.

Kate smiles, more from her own relief than his words. It really is nothing more than a flesh wound, at worst it will require a few stitches. Her smile turns to a grimace as she twists, and for a moment she can't breathe at all as the pain washes over her in angry red-hot waves.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his brow furrowed, eyes wide.

She finds herself on her back on the grass once more, right back where she started. "I think the impact cracked a rib," she groans. She won't worry him with the other possibilities, won't even mention things like internal bleeding, ruptured organs, the possibility of surgery.

"My fault?" he asks, hovering over her.

"The bullet," she clarifies. "You only managed to wind me." And possibly give her a concussion. But she keeps that one inside too.

He stares down at her, relief showing on his face, his hand applying pressure to his wound even though she can tell that all he wants to do is touch her.

The yelling, the commotion around them continues, but she's focused on him now. He saved her. He pulled her out of the way and got hit by the bullet meant for her, the one that would have ended her. Her hand reaches up, and she cups his face, her palm holding his jaw, fingertips like butterfly wings brushing lightly at his cheek. _You saved me. You jumped in front of that bullet and almost died. For me._ But what leaves her lips is, "I love you."

Castle looks stunned then. He leans down, aiming for her lips, oblivious to those around them. He doesn't care if they know, doesn't give a thought to the consequences, doesn't see anyone but her.

But he doesn't make it, doesn't have the chance to cover her lips with his. People crowd around them, reach for them, pull him away from her. The medic is in his face, gloved fingers wrapping around his arm, examining his wound. Lanie is bent over Kate, asking her questions, checking her vitals, her vest.

The blur of activity is so fast she's not even sure she spoke those words out loud.

"Dad!"

Castle reaches his good arm out, and takes his daughter's hand, smiling at his mother. "I'm fine, just a scratch." He squeezes her hand. He meets Ryan's eyes, and the detective nods. "Ryan will take you home," Castle tells his daughter, his mother. "They're just gonna take me to get a couple of stitches and then I'll be home."

"I'm coming with you," Alexis argues.

He shakes his head, drops her hand, and gestures for Ryan to step closer. "I'll be home soon," he promises. He watches his daughter being led away, sees her resisting as she looks back over her shoulder; he meets her eyes, and feels his heart break at the fierce anger being directed at him.

Martha follows quietly, a gentle hand on her granddaughter's arm.

"I need her safe," Castle murmurs to Beckett.

Kate wants to reply, say something, but she just can't fill her lungs. She can't breathe. She struggles to keep her eyes open while Lanie and two medics hover around her, she struggles to respond to Castle's frantic, "_Kate, Kate, Kate_," but she loses the battle and darkness consumes her.

* * *

><p>"<em>I love you, Kate. I love you<em>."

His voice eases her from the darkness, and she blinks against the whiteness of the room as she comes to. White walls, bright lights, it hurts. Not as much as her chest, but it still stings.

"You can't say that to me when I'm unconscious." She forces the words out through dry lips, sounding hoarse and weak but alive. She focuses on him, and smiles as his own eyes light up.

"Hey," he murmurs, scooting his chair closer to her bedside. "Welcome back."

"What happened?"

"You passed out."

"Great," she murmurs. "Never gonna live that one down." His hand slips down to hers and their fingers lace together. "So, what's the damage?"

"Cracked rib, you'll have a hell of a bruise," he tells her. "And, ah, you have a concussion."

"So, moderate injuries then," she concludes, sinking back into the pillow in quiet relief.

He winces then. "The concussion is my fault."

"Better a concussion than a hole in the head." A rueful smile tugs at her lips, one never meant to reach her eyes.

"Yeah," he replies.

She glances around the small hospital room and sighs. "How long am I stuck here?"

"Just tonight. For observation."

She nods at that. "And your arm?" She can see the bandage covering it, just the barest hint of red staining the white.

"A few stitches, but it's fine."

"You promised Alexis-"

"I've called her already," he interrupts. "It's fine. I wanted to be here, when you woke up."

"I'm glad you're here," she tells him. "Any news?"

Castle shakes his head. "They retrieved the weapon, but there's been nothing more yet."

"I need to help them."

"Tomorrow," he tells her, his tone gentle but firm. "You need to rest now."

"Castle-"

"Kate," he says, his tone harsher now, his features tightening in frustration. "Don't fight me on this. You were only wearing that vest because Esposito wouldn't let you attend without it, if he hadn't.. God, Kate, you could be dead now and I-"

"Shhh," she hushes him, squeezing his hand, calming them both. "Distract me, Castle. Stop me from thinking about it. Help me get through this day." It's more for him than for her. She'll replay the events of the day long into the night when everyone else has collapsed into bed. She'll go over every second she can remember, and will fight to fill in the blanks. Tomorrow she will be back in that cemetery, going back over the scene, brushing fingertips over a freshly carved stone as she moves between the graves, paying her respects to her captain while she struggles to find answers.

"I love you," he murmurs, leaning down to press his lips to hers.

It brings her back to now, and she reaches up to frame his face with her palms. "I love you," she responds, breathing the words against his lips. She loses herself in Castle, in his touch, his scent, his love, knowing that he'll keep her from falling down the rabbit hole once more.

**End.**


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